Page 105 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

“Santa, why do you keep looking over there? I don’t want ababydoll. I want a Rainbow High doll. But it has to be the one with the colorful hair, and not the little one, because her eyelashes are painted on.”

“Uh, noted,” I tell the seven-year-old girl named Frances. Her middle name is Margaret, but she would have preferred something like Rose or Hyacinth. She probably would have told me her parents’ social security numbers too if she knew them. “And I’m looking ather.” I point to Anabelle, who has her head bent over a book, her hair falling around it in sexy waves. “She’s my girlfriend. Isn’t she beautiful?”

Her mouth falls open. “You’re cheating on Mrs. Claus?”

“Five minutes,” Ada announces over the loudspeaker.

Thank Christ. I’ve got a headache, and I need a shot of whiskey and at least an hour alone with Anabelle.

“Rainbow High doll with rainbow hair,” I say, loudly enough for her parents to hear, hopefully. Then I add, “Aisle 5,” for good measure. Doesn’t hurt to be helpful.

Frances gets up but stomps her foot. “What about Mrs. Claus?”

I’m tempted to say something likewhat she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, but I have a job to do, so I draw in a deep breath and say, “SheisMrs. Claus. She’s in disguise.” Then I lift my finger to my lips, and she makes the lip-zipping motion in response.

It’s cute enough to lift my mood, and I listen to one other kid’s capitalist wishes before Ada puts an end to the evening.

I get up, give ’em one lastho ho ho, and go to Anabelle. “You didn’t have to come, sweetheart. I thought you were going shopping with Cynthia.”

It’s a bit unusual for her and Cynthia to go clothes shopping together—Anabelle usually buys her clothes online, and almost always from the same stores because she knows how the fabric feels—but I figured maybe she was going Christmas shopping and didn’t want to say so. I’ve already bought her a couple of Christmas gifts, although I second-guess myself at least five times a day.

“I wanted to come,” she says, kissing the side of my face.

“Ooooooh,” says a young boy who hasn’t cleared out of the store yet. “That lady’s kissing Santa Claus.”

Ada actuallysmilesat me on my way out. “Good job, kid. You don’t have to put any dollars in the bucket today.”

We have an agreement that I need to put a dollar in her donation bucket every time I swear—which apparently includes saying hell and damn around kids. It’s helped me clean up my act. The money goes to a fund for foster kids, though, and I’m going to make a donation on purpose as my Christmas present to Ada.

My head still aches, but I feel good as I open the car door for Anabelle and then walk around and climb in. Maybe the ache in my head is from the stress of carrying around the feeling that the other shoe is about to drop…

Every day it doesn’t drop, I know it’s getting lower and lower.

“Are you okay?” she asks, giving me a worried look.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Would you like to see what I got with Cynthia?” she asks.

“Sure.”

She pulls a slinky red silk teddy out of the bag.

“Jesus Christ.” I tug it from her, my eyes on her. “You bought this, Anabelle?”

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” I say, my throat feeling raw and my dick suddenly rock-hard. “Yeah, I like it. Does this mean…?”

She looks me dead in the eye and says, “I want you to make love to me, Ryan.”

Damn.

“Are you trying to get me to speed?” I ask.

She smiles at me, then returns the teddy to the bag, which she sets primly in her lap, and somehow that only makes me more eager for her.

I lean in and kiss her hard, and she opens her mouth and invites me in without hesitation.

---